On lonely summer evenings when we used to get off work, going
back home was the last thing on my mind. perhaps even yours. Some days I would
wait for you to wrap up some things you would for me.
I almost distinctly remember your gaze at my back as you stood
staring at me, waiting at me, waiting for me to finish, from my cabin door. As
I hammered away at the keyboard, casting furtive glances at the watch on my
wrist, I could swear everyone could see the nerves in my neck pricking at my
skin, unable to push away the spell you had me under, aching to break free.
After minutes that seemed like ages later, we would leave the
building and head to the little service road alongside the park for a small cup
of coffee and eternally long conversations. The twilight would seem to have
come to a halt, as fireflies scampered about you and I, your words echoing in
my head, your fingers entwined to mine and our chortle melting into the idle
summer breeze. We made no promise and kept no expectations. Yet, every evening
we followed the unspoken ritual, as long as we could. That summer.
And when it would get really late and I would have to head home,
I knew you would send me lovingly, poetry and love to me through the divine
thing humans call the cell phone. First thing when we parted. our phones and
our texts had an affair of their own, didn't they? Ever so charming mine would
light up when your text came, as though barely able to restrain her excitement,
that it never ceased to make me smile. I know yours would have been doing the
same thing too, as I picture you trip and grab him.
That summer lives. That summer when we discovered life the way
we probably never will, in the things that we will probably never know again,
and found the love we will never find anywhere else. That summer when eternity
wrote songs on a moonlit night and there was no one to read but you and me.
That summer when promises hid under sepia like words as lilies bloomed. Yes,
that summer.
That summer lives.
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